Shadows In The Rain
by Laura Schiller
Summary: Our Mutual Friend. Eugene Wrayburn is not as indifferent to his rival's suffering as he pretends to be; unfortunately, it takes two to make peace as well as war. Eugene/Lizzie; unrequited Bradley/Lizzie.


Shadows In The Rain

By Laura Schiller

Based on: Our Mutual Friend

Copyright: Public Domain/BBC

"_I cannot seem to forget that fellow's face."_

Neither could Eugene, and nor could he forget Mortimer's. His old friend's veneer of well-bred irony and carelessness was nearly as thick as his own; the crack running through it at the sight of the schoolmaster's face was nothing short of unnerving. Eugene had been treating all this as a game, "the pleasures of the chase" as he called it, letting himself be followed back and forth across the city, finding a dark humor in turning hunter into prey. He had never asked himself just why he did it, or why it gave him so much satisfaction to drive another man to madness.

He was asking himself now.

With Mortimer asleep, Eugene went to the window and peered down through a chink between the blinds. There was his shadow, standing underneath a gaslight, his arms tightly folded in order to present a smaller target to the pouring rain, staring up towards the wondow with smoldering eyes. Eugene imagined the rain hissing as it turned to steam upon contact with that coal-black coat. It was a formidable sight.

And yet … how much longer would he stand there, getting soaked to the bone? Good God, didn't he own an umbrella? Was this his idea of martyrdom?

What would Lizzie say if she knew that a fellow creature, no matter how obnoxious, was suffering outside Eugene's window while he watched and did nothing? Her reproachful brown eyes were as clear in his mind as if she stood right next to him. _Oh, Mr. Wrayburn, you don't mean it, _she used to say after some of his more cynical remarks, when he would visit her at Jenny Wren's lodgings. _I know you better than that. _

She was either sadly delusional, he thought, or knew him much better than he knew himself.

It had been miserable weather too the first time he spoke to her, the night of her father's death. Eugene would never forget the endless hours of waiting with his coat over his head, failing to keep off the rain, seeing Lizzie's face by the warm light of the candle. On the outside, looking in, just as the schoolmaster was now.

Lizzie. The eye of the hurricane. Focal point of this whole ridiculous, terrible charade. When he thought of her, Eugene had half a mind to run out into the rain himself, and watch the steam roll off him like a railway engine. Not that he _would_ do any such thing, of course.

Wouldn't he?

"Oh, Lord." He rolled his eyes at his reflection in the mirror, which was inexplicably pulling on a coat and taking his umbrella from its stand. "Eugene, Eugene, what do you think you're doing? Ah, well. Suppose we'll find out."

/

"What do you want?" his shadow snarled, as soon as he stepped outside.

Eugene held up one hand palm-up to show he came in peace, the other holding his umbrella. "I say, look here … " _Schoolmaster,_ he nearly said, but caught himself just in time. "Headstone … this game of ours has gone on long enough, don't you think?"

This small flare of pride at actually remembering the name did not last long. Face to face, smelling of sweat, alcohol and wet wool, the whites of his eyes glowing like an animal's by the flickering lantern, Bradley Headstone looked even more impossible to reason with than before. Eugene had meant to offer to share his umbrella, but right now, every instinct warned him against standing too close.

_This is partly your fault, _said his conscience, in a voice not unlike Mortimer's. He shivered for reasons that had little to do with the weather.

"It is no game to me, Mr. Eugene Wrayburn," Headstone replied, his low voice vibrating with tension. "Though if it were, I would have no intention to concede."

"Hmm. No, I didn't think you would." Eugene thought with reluctant admiration of the schoolmaster's stubbornness. "Quite frankly, I never expected you to last this long. Had I been in your place, I would have thrown in the towel after the first night."

Headstone smiled with a grim sort of contempt, as if Eugene had just confirmed his opinion. "Do _you _concede, then?" he challenged. "Is that what you came to say?"

"Well … " To his chagrin, Eugene found himself blushing. He edged casually out of the light, thinking for the first time that if his adversary had ever felt this humiliated, it was no wonder the man was such a powder-keg. "Well … yes, I suppose I do. I've used you ill, Headstone, and I am sorry for it. No more hunting expeditions round Saint Paul's from now on, I promise."

He held out his hand and braced himself, ready for either a return handshake or a punch. Instead, however, Headstone lunged forward and caught his forearm with both hands, a half-mad hope blazing up in his face.

"Then for the love of God, Mr. Wrayburn, _tell me where she is!_ I have not had a moment's peace since she has gone. Why else would I have dogged your footsteps night after night? I do assure you, it was never for _your_ entertainment! Was it you who stole her from me? How is she living? Is she happy? Is she safe? Only tell me, and I shall follow you no more. I implore you, Mr. Wrayburn … if I could only speak to her one more time … "

Headstone snatched his hands away, leaving painful spots on Eugene's arm that were very likely bruises, and wiped his wet eyes with his equally wet sleeve. Eugene watched him with a tangle of mixed feelings, finally understanding why he had spent so much time tormenting this man in the first place.

He did not feel superior to Headstone, and never had. He envied Headstone, for feeling everything he was afraid to let himself feel. _If I could only speak to her one more time …_

And yet, among the envy, there was a chilling touch of fear.

"Upon my soul and honor," Eugene said quietly, "I know no more of Lizzie Hexam's whereabouts than you do … but even if I did, I would not tell you."

"And why not, if I may ask?" Headstone's teeth flashed white in the darkness as he bared them in a snarl.

"Because I don't think much of your proprietary manner, my good fellow. 'Steal her', indeed! You may be her brother's master, but that does not make you hers."

"Nor yours – you scoundrel," as an audible aside.

Headstone took a step closer, wringing his hands together until they were white at the knuckles. Eugene forced himself not to step back, not to show fear or anger, not to let the schoolmaster know just how sick he became at the thought of gentle Lizzie within a mile of this man. She was the bravest girl he knew, but could she have endured a lifetime of this? As empty as Eugene's life was without her, for a moment he was thankful that she was gone.

"_I _never said she was. I never established any claim on her but the claim of a friend."

"Do you expect me to believe that?" Under the shade of the umbrella, Headstone's face was no more than a shadow, but his voice was rough with the sound of being forced through gritted teeth. "I have seen her face when your name is mentioned, heard her praise of you, felt her temper rise in your defense. You have no idea of how to value the priceless gifts you hold so lightly!"

In this moment, inconsistent as he was, Eugene changed his mind once again. Far from being thankful for Lizzie's absence, he promised once more to find her at all costs. How ironic that Headstone, of all people, warped and distorted as his perspective no doubt was, would be the first to give him hope that Lizzie might care for him.

He would call on Jenny one more time, use every wile at his disposal to get that stubborn girl on his side. He would hire a private detective if he had to. But before he did any of those things, he would need to get away from Headstone for the night. He could not set any of his plans in motion until the next morning, when the schoolmaster (heaven help his pupils) would return to duty.

"Yes, well," he shrugged. "I might say, _so do you. _I would give a great deal for such energy of feeling and strength of purpose as you have, Headstone." Judging by the way the dark head opposite him tilted incredulously, Eugene had succeeded in startling him out of his rage for once.

"However, being the superficial sort of fellow I am, I feel this rain seeping into my shoes more acutely than anything else tonight. On that note, I must ask to be excused."

Headstone scoffed under his breath, and there was a flash of reflected lantern light that might have been the rolling of his eyes. He did not bow, or even nod, as he stepped out from under the umbrella and turned to leave. Either he had not believed Eugene's near-compliment (which was fair, since Eugene himself could not believe he'd actually said it, even if it was true), or it had only confirmed him in despising his high-born rival more than ever.

"Oh, and Headstone?"

"Yes?"

"Do try and stay out of the wet." Eugene folded his umbrella and held it out, handle first.

Headstone eyed it narrowly, then its giver, then lashed out and knocked it onto the cobblestones. Eugene jumped back involuntarily; one step closer and that heavy hand would have struck him instead.

"I would," said the schoolmaster, as crisply and clearly as if leading a dictation exercise, "Die of pneumonia first."

"Dear me! Well. Suit yourself, schoolmaster. Good night."

Eugene scooped up the umbrella, unfolded it, and hurried back to his building underneath its shelter. When he turned around by the door, he saw Headstone's coat whip around a corner as if wild wolves were after him. Eugene sincerely prayed never to see that coat, or its wearer, again, and tried his best not to feel the old sting in his soul. First his father, then Lizzie, and now this; would he ever find a role model who would not reject him?

"Catch me ever trying to play peacemaker again," he said, slapping the umbrella hard against the wall to shake the drops out. "I might have known I'd make a botch of it as usual. This is what comes of listening to my confounded conscience."

_Still, _said a softer voice inhis mind, one he associated with candlelight, brown eyes and the murmuring song of the river. _You can rest easy knowing there was nothing more you could have done. I'm proud of you, Mr. Wrayburn._

And for once in his shallow, unfulfilled life, despite a thousand worries, fears and unspoken regrets, Eugene did rest easily that night.


End file.
